


The Nights Grow Long, But Dreams Live On

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Canon, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:56:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: In the middle of the Blitz, after their reunion at the church, Aziraphale and Crowley celebrate Christmas. Hidden away by the blackout curtains and the sound of bombs, they may just feel safe enough to confess how they really feel...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 81
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	The Nights Grow Long, But Dreams Live On

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's not Christmas but much like the Blitz, the world is on fire, so I'm sure this is the first of many fics I will write while I'm stuck inside thanks to the coronavirus.
> 
> Title from Queen's Teo Torriatte (Let Us Cling Together)

It didn’t feel very much like Christmas.

To be fair, Christmas was still a rather recent invention for Aziraphale, who had seen several different variations of December holidays pass by before his corner of the world settled on one, and what it felt like just kept on changing. He had thoroughly enjoyed it ever since though, even if the humans insisted the date had nothing to do with the great god Mithras. The beautiful Christmas trees that had become popular last century and carolers throughout the city always cheered everyone up, even if Aziraphale had to chase away more customers than usual as everyone searched for the perfect Christmas gift. The Christmas puddings more than made up for that. Yes, Aziraphale quite enjoyed Christmas.

Not least because, at least up until their argument in 1862, he had always spent it with Crowley. Oh, there were years they had skipped, because one of them was off doing the other’s work or whatnot, but usually it was one of the days they made sure to spend together. Aziraphale had to admit that the last century’s Christmases had been much less pleasant since he’d had to spend them alone.

But all that was over now, after Crowley had swooped in to save him from Nazis (if it was rather more like hopping than swooping in heroically, Aziraphale didn’t quibble over it), and they had picked up much where they’d left off, something Aziraphale was very glad about. He hadn’t wanted their first conversation after nearly a century’s separation to be another argument about holy water. He’d been so relieved to see that Crowley hadn’t found holy water some other way that he was in no rush to start the argument up again. Crowley seemed to feel the same way, because he hadn’t mentioned the idea of holy water at all. Aziraphale hoped he’d decided he wasn’t desperate enough to want such dreadfully permanent insurance.

Still, it was only the prospect of seeing Crowley that made this Christmas feel anything like the others. Otherwise, all Aziraphale would have been thinking of were the bombs that fell every night and the wail of the air-raid sirens. All London was gripped by a stern, resigned determination to get through this. At times it felt like the only reason anyone tried to celebrate Christmas was to prove to the Nazis that they could.

But Aziraphale was determined to make this as merry a Christmas as possible, setting out some wartime eggnog (no milk or sugar) and picking out his favorite Christmas albums for when Crowley came over. Even if they’d have to spend the evening behind blackout curtains, it was the first Christmas he and Crowley had celebrated in nearly a century. It had to be somewhat special. 

Crowley arrived, late of course, preceded by the roar of his car’s engines that made Aziraphale jump. He’d have to get used to that. “Evening, angel,” Crowley said brightly, throwing open the doors, draping himself on the sofa and taking a glass of eggnog. Immediately, he made a face and forced himself to swallow. “Bleh, Aziraphale, what’s in this?”

“It’s more like what isn’t in it, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said apologetically as he took a sip of his own glass and tried not to make a face. “No milk, or sugar. It’s rationing, you know.”

Crowley gave him an incredulous look. “Yeah, but you don’t have to listen to that. You can just miracle it up!”

“Yes, but I thought I ought to go along with it. In solidarity, you know,” Aziraphale said, not letting on that he wasn’t above miracling an extra bottle of milk for the young woman across the street who had twin babies every so often. It was the principle of the thing. There was a war on, after all. Besides, Gabriel had been very upset at the loss of that church, and had blamed Aziraphale accordingly, for “going off and doing spy business. Badly, I might add.” He'd thought he should lay low for a while.

Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Instantly, the eggnog transformed into the thick, rich eggnog of peacetime. Aziraphale couldn’t help but admit that it made the whole evening brighter. One couldn't have Christmas without the perfect eggnog, after all. “Don’t thank me,” Crowley said warningly, taking off his glasses as he took another glass.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale said. “Cheers,” he added, clinking his glass with Crowley’s. As he did, a bomb exploded a few streets away, shattering the illusion that it was just like old times. The fire whistles started blaring immediately after. “Oh, I do hope they didn’t hit anything too dreadful,” Aziraphale said worriedly. He kept his own street safe from any bombs but his power only extended so far, especially if he was trying to keep Gabriel off his back. 

“Just a reminder that even on Christmas, the war isn’t over,” Crowley said. He sounded bitter. Aziraphale supposed that was because his side had probably sent him over to the front, the way they had last time, and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen.

Aziraphale hadn’t asked. The reports coming from the Continent were worse than last time. Much of what he heard he didn’t want to believe.

“Well, anyway, I’ve got something for you, angel,” Crowley said, pulling a small wrapped package out of his coat pocket. “Came across it in the rubble somewhere.”

“Crowley, you didn’t steal it!” Aziraphale admonished as he took the package.

“Who said anything about stealing? Finders keepers, that's what that is,” Crowley answered. “Just open it already.”

Aziraphale unwrapped the package to find a very small, very old book. He gasped sharply. “Crowley, I’ve been searching for this for centuries! How on earth did you manage to find it?” The Book of Hours in his hand had once belonged to a duchess and had been held in various private collections for centuries. It was believed to be the finest example of fourteenth-century illumination in Britain, only no one had seen it in person for decades. Whispers of its quality were rampant among rare booksellers and collectors all of whom would love to be in Aziraphale's place right now.

And Crowley had got it for Aziraphale.

“Like I said, found it in the rubble. Lord High-and-Mighty didn’t bother to move his collection out of London,” Crowley said, then shrugged. “Didn’t know it was so important. Just thought you’d like it.”

Aziraphale beamed, his smile widening. “I know exactly where to put this, so it will never be in that sort of danger again.” His storage space, upstairs in what was originally the flat above the shop, was full of the books too precious to be stored in the bookshop itself. The works of Sappho, the Cypria and the Sack of Ilium, the “lost” plays of Aeschylus, which weren’t lost at all and had pride of place on Aziraphale’s personal bookshelf. Among others. He always intended to bring them out to show humanity someday but never got around to it.

Certainly not now, while they were so intent on destroying themselves again.

“I know you said not to thank you, but I do so appreciate it. You always know exactly what I’ll like,” Aziraphale said, smiling at Crowley. “I only wish I had something as nice to give you.” The bottle of brandy he had set aside, the last he’d managed to buy from France before Germany invaded Paris, suddenly felt inadequate.

In answer, Crowley, took off his glasses, revealing his eyes, now completely yellow. He got up and turned up the Christmas music on the phonograph (White Christmas, Aziraphale noted, out of nowhere. It suddenly seemed very important that he knew what song was playing while this was going on), and then kept going. Until he was leaning over, right next to Aziraphale’s ear. “You know what I want,” he whispered.

Aziraphale sighed. Of course they would end up here again. Why had he expected differently? “I’ve already told you, Crowley-”

“No, not that,” Crowley said. “You must know, Aziraphale. It’s been six thousand years.”

Oh.

The music was playing louder than Aziraphale had ever played it before, and outside the bombs dropping and the air raid sirens combined to drown out everything but what Crowley was directly saying to him. Which was why Aziraphale answered.

“Crowley. We can’t. You know we can’t.” Even knowing no one could hear them, Aziraphale felt the familiar fear rise in his throat. Any acknowledgement could bring their superiors down on top of them. They just had to hope no one was listening. Too busy with the war. “Hell wouldn’t just call you back for a scolding. They’d destroy you, utterly. As if you’d never been here.” Aziraphale hoped his voice conveyed some of the desperation he felt at the idea, which he’d never been able to face. Never mind what his own side would do to him. He always tried not to think about it. But there were rumors of solitary cells that awaited angels who disobeyed badly enough. And of course, they could make him Fall.

“And if we could?” Crowley asked, apparently not willing to stop pushing tonight. “If we were free, would you?” His eyes were wide, fully yellow. They were the most beautiful eyes Aziraphale had ever seen. He closed his own, so he wouldn't have to see the pleading look in them.

If they were free...it didn’t bear thinking about. They never would be, not until Armageddon itself, and even then, they would be forced to fight on opposite sides. There was simply no point in even thinking about it.

But now that the thought was there...oh, how wonderful it would be. They wouldn’t have to hide in theaters, or sneak around and play music loud enough to have a real conversation. They wouldn’t have to pretend to be thwarting each other or constantly watch over their shoulders in case they were being followed. They could finally, truly, enjoy each other’s company, after six thousand years.

Aziraphale had many reasons not to associate Heaven with the idea of anything blissful. But if he could choose his own Heaven...he couldn’t think of anything better. “If we were free,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I would have already.” Even hidden as they were, neither of them dared say it aloud. This was as close as they had ever come, and even now they still couldn’t name it. But, Aziraphale thought, they didn’t have to.

They’d always known.

Crowley seemed surprised by his answer before breaking into a smile, one that wasn’t mocking or sardonic at all, only truly affectionate. His snake eyes shone with relief, and hope. 

If nothing else, Aziraphale thought, it was worth it to see that expression on Crowley’s face. He always loved seeing Crowley truly smile, and jealously guarded the knowledge that he was the only being in the universe who ever saw it.

“Well, then,” Crowley said, “I’ve been waiting long enough. A little more won’t kill me.” He smiled again and took Aziraphale’s hand. A split second of indecision crossed his face before he seemed to make a decision. Perhaps gambling that the blackout curtains were sufficiently private, he quickly kissed Aziraphale on the cheek, French style.

Aziraphale, stunned for a second, had no explanation for what he did next, only that if he was going to give Crowley ideas he might as well make sure they were the right ones and pulled the demon back as he started to pull away. He leaned up and in no time at all they were really, properly, kissing, as the air raid sirens wailed and Bing Crosby sang about the snow they never saw in Britain in December.

When they broke apart, Crowley hastened to the other side of the room, the spell broken. They’d risked enough tonight, enough to know where they really stood. “I wanted to make sure you knew I was sure,” Aziraphale said primly, adjusting his waistcoat and sitting up straight, as if he really had been caught.

Crowley’s normally pale face was bright red. “Don’t think I have any doubt.” He put his glasses back on, though the small, affectionate smile remained. Aziraphale was certain his own was a match. “Eggnog?”


End file.
